“Mom, you’re beautiful!” said John.
“Carl made copies, so everybody gets one,” Mom said, passing them out.
Leslie perused the transcript, underlining key words. “I suppose one goal would be to get her to say some of these key words, anything that she pronounces in a distinct way.”
“It’ll be tough,” said John. “If she had a lisp or something it would be easier.”
“Well, hopefully the same inflections will come through.”
John looked at his watch again. “8:34. It’s getting later and later over there.”
“We’d better pray,” said Mom.
“Go ahead,” said John.
They all bowed their heads in customary fashion as Mom led in a short prayer. “Dear Heavenly Father, we ask for Your divine hand upon this undertaking. May we find the Truth, dear Lord, and may the Truth set free all those concerned. And we ask this in Jesus’ precious name, Amen.”
“Amen,” they agreed.
“God help us,” said Leslie as she picked up the receiver, consulted her notepad for the number, and dialed it.
Carl turned on the tape recorder, and he and John put on their headphones. Mom leaned close to Carl to listen.
The phone rang. No answer. Leslie scanned her scribbled notes, not sure how to start.
The phone rang again.
Clunk. “Hello?”
Leslie had been looking at John and Carl. Now all her concentration went on that young lady two time zones away.
“Hello, this is Leslie Albright calling Shannon DuPliese.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Uh, Leslie Albright. I’m with Channel 6 News. Is this Shannon?”
“Yes.” She sounded hesitant, wary.
“Well, hi.”
“Hi.”
“I apologize for calling so late. I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Leslie rolled her eyes at having to use such a line.
“No, I’m not in bed yet.”
“Well, listen . . . uh, we were thinking of doing a follow-up story on the first recipient of the Hillary Slater Memorial Scholarship, you know, just see how you were doing and what reflections you might have . . .”
“Uh . . . excuse me?” Shannon didn’t seem to be following Leslie’s line of thought.
Leslie saw a word on the transcript. “Uh . . . you know, we tried to write to you to see if we could set it up, but we couldn’t get your address. It’s at Midwestern, but after that we’re not sure how to write you.”
“You need the address?”
Leslie knew she’d triggered a key phrase but didn’t have time to think about it. John underlined it on his copy of the transcript.
Leslie kept going. Keep her talking, keep her talking. “Uh, sure, could you give it to me?”
“It’s Box 9921, Midwestern University . . .”
Leslie wrote it down. “Great. Now anyway, what I was calling about, we’d like to ask if you’d be interested in letting us do a follow-up story on you—where you are now, how you’re doing. We’re kind of keeping track of the Hillary Slater thing and the scholarship program the governor set up.”
“Uh-huh.” That was all she said.
Leslie had to ask another question; this girl just didn’t roll easily into a conversation. “Okay, well, first of all, we understand that you and Hillary were best friends, right?”
Hesitation. “Yeah, well . . . yeah, that’s right. We wen—” The last phrase was unintelligible.
“Pardon me? I think we have a bad connection.”
Shannon spoke louder. “Oh, I said we went to school together.”
“Okay, great. Well, what would you say is your fondest memory of her?”
Hesitation. “Uhh . . .”
“Well, what do you remember about her the most?”
“Well . . .” Long pause.
“Hello?”
Suddenly, “I don’t . . . I—I can’t talk about Hillary.”
Oh boy. Now what? “Oh . . . I am sorry. That must still be a very painful area for you . . .”
“I probably shouldn’t be talking to you at all.”
John and Leslie caught each other’s eye immediately.
“Oh,” Leslie continued delicately, “is this not a good time? It’s late, I can understand that. There’s a two-hour difference, right?”
“I can’t talk to you.”
“You can’t talk to me?”
“No. I . . . I really shouldn’t. I don’t want to get into any of this, okay?”
Leslie could feel it—she was losing the contact.
“Well, we don’t want you to talk about anything you’re not comfortable talking about—”
“I don’t . . . Well, it’s not you, okay? I just can’t talk about it.”
“So . . . you’re not interested in any follow-up story, any—”
Click. Shannon DuPliese hung up.
Leslie became angry with herself as she hung up the phone, but John countered her reaction right away. “Hey, you did fine. I think we got enough.”
But Leslie was still upset. “There is something wrong with that girl!”
Carl rewound the tape. “She’s scared, did you hear it?”
John scanned his transcript. “Well, we got one complete phrase—‘You need the address,’ plus an opening ‘hello,’ one ‘Hillary,’ and three ‘can’ts.’ There might be more when we listen again.”
“It’s her,” said Carl. “No question about it.”
“It’s her,” said Leslie.
“Let’s hear it again,” said John.
They played the tape until Shannon said, “You need the address?” and then John signaled Carl to stop there. John had Dad’s cassette player with the 911 tape cued. He let the tape roll until the 911 girl said the same phrase, “You need the address?”
“A little more hysterical, I would say,” said Mom.
“Let’s play them close together,” said John, winding the cassette back just a touch. Carl used his hands to manually cue the tape reels. With a nod from John, Carl played the phrase again, “You need the address?” and then John played the cassette, “You need the address?” John looked at the group for their reaction.
Leslie heaved a sigh and reiterated with all the more certainty, “We’ve got her.”
Carl shook his head. “No doubt. It’s her.”
Mom nodded. “She wasn’t frantic this time, but . . . it was her. It was the same voice.”
John withheld his vote just yet. “One more test. Let’s find where she says ‘Hillary.’”
John found the one mention of the name on the 911 tape, while Carl sought out the one occurrence in his recording. They played them close together.
“Same vote,” said Leslie.
“It’s her,” said Carl. “Now I’m even more sure.”
Mom raised her hand and said, “Praise the Lord, it’s her.”
John looked at them one by one and finally cast his vote. “We’ve got her!”
Leslie was troubled. “But how in the world are we going to get through to her? How do we get her to talk to us?”
“We pray!” said Mom.
“Well . . . besides that.”
John was new at this matter of faith and prayer, but he was learning. “No, you mean after that. If God’s on our side at all, we need to include Him in our deliberations. Mom’s absolutely right—let’s pray.”
Leslie smiled. “Well, it’s been a while, but I guess even a backslidden Baptist can do that. It can’t hurt.”
Carl was watching John intently. “You really think it will help?”
John tried to be honest. “Son, I’ll admit I’m still befuddled about a lot of things, but there’s one thing I know for sure: God is there, and He can speak, and He can listen, and if we’re doing the right thing, what He wants us to do, then I think He’ll help us out.” Then John turned it right back to his son. “How about you? What do you think?”
Carl thought about it. “If you pray, I’ll pray.”
“Well, then we’re all in agreement,” said Mom.
So with a slightly fumbling but willing faith, they gave it a try, and though they couldn’t prove it in a test tube, they all knew they’d connected with the Creator by the time Mom said the final “Amen.”
CHAPTER 24
SHANNON DUPLIESE, NINETEEN, honor student, sat on the edge of her bed in her dorm room and ran a brush through her long, brown locks, pulling hard, almost tearing through any tangles, her expression grim, her mind and heart fiercely debating. On her desk were her studies, almost completed for the night, but abandoned ever since that call from the Channel 6 lady, that call that brought a buried ghost back to life so it could return and haunt her.
Back to life? Really? As Shannon continued to brush her hair and think it through, she realized the ghost was never dead or buried in the first place, but alive and well. It had followed her to the university and was sure to follow her everywhere throughout her life. Yes, during the few weeks of classes she’d tried to turn her back on it, but now this phone call had jarred her and spun her around to see it still there, its fingers of pain and regret still entangling her as relentlessly as ever.
And then there was the matter of the invisible, subtle string attached to her education. No one mentioned this string, or rather this leash, when she was awarded the scholarship, but she hadn’t asked about it either. The agreement was made without a word spoken, and now it was there, attached to the money and to her, a choke collar that tightened every once in a while and had just about gagged her to death when Channel 6 called.
She was imprisoned in a cage with a horrible secret—gagged and unable to scream.
The phone rang again. It was 10:45. Who would be calling at this hour?
“Hello?”
“Hello, Shannon. This is Martin Devin. How are you?”
The leash! The choke collar! She always felt it whenever Martin Devin called to extend his best wishes and see how she was doing—to pry, in other words. Tonight, especially since that call from Channel 6, she could feel his loop around her neck as she’d never felt it before—teasing her, yanking her, continually keeping her in line. This was going to be another little session with her keeper and trainer, Martin Devin. He would crack the whip and toss her treats, and she would do her tricks.
Or would she?
“Shannon? Hello?”
She fumbled, her mind disoriented, distracted by a new defiance that surprised her. Tonight, this time, she didn’t feel the usual intimidation. Instead she felt anger.
Finally she replied, “Hello.”
“Sorry to be calling so late. I’ve been trying to get through to you, but the phone’s been busy.” He was asking what she’d been doing on the phone; he was hinting to know whom she’d been talking to.
“Uh-huh” was all she said.
“I suppose you were having a nice visit with someone, right?” That was no hint; that was a nosy question.
None of your business, creep! “A friend.”
“Mm-hm.” Then an abrupt leap into easy, friendly territory. This guy could switch into social gear so easily it was disgusting. “So how are the studies going?”
“Just fine.”
“Well, that’s good. We’re all rooting for you.”
“So I’d like to hear from the governor sometime.” It was her way of saying, I’m sick of hearing from you. She’d not heard from Governor Slater since his grand media performance in awarding her the scholarship, but she had heard from Martin Devin more than she’d heard from her own parents.
“Well,” said Devin, “the governor’s been really busy with his campaign. But I’ll pass the word along that you’d like to have a call from him.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“So, Shannon, I won’t keep you long, but I do have some very important matters to discuss.”
She didn’t acknowledge the statement but remained silent. Let him do the talking, she thought. He made the call—let him carry the conversation.
He carried it. “Shannon, have you gotten any calls from the media? Anyone calling to ask questions?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” She wasn’t ashamed of it. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Marty!
Devin sounded alarmed. “You have talked to the media?”
“Not really. But I got a call just now, right before you called.”
He got confrontive. “Was that the . . . uh . . . friend you told me you were talking to?”
“Yeah.”
“Who was it?”
“Somebody from Channel 6.” She couldn’t hear it clearly, but she knew he was swearing to himself. “They called because they wanted to do a follow-up story on me, something about the first recipient of the Hillary Slater scholarship.”
His voice was strained. “Do you remember the name of the reporter?”
“Uh . . . Leslie something.”
“Leslie Albright?”
“Yeah, that was it.”
This time she could hear his swearing distinctly.
“What about John Barrett? Did you talk to him?”
“No. Just Leslie.”
“So what did you say to her?”
“I told her I couldn’t talk about it.”
“You did? Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“So . . . you didn’t answer any of her questions?”
“Hey . . .” She actually laughed a little. “You sound really paranoid, you know that?”
Devin didn’t laugh. He sounded nervous, upset. “Well . . . Shannon, I’m sorry to have to put this kind of a burden on you, but you have to realize this is the governor’s family, his own private matter, and now it’s an election year, he’s out campaigning, and there are people in the media who would really jump at the chance to destroy him, to dig something up that would hurt him. You understand that, don’t you?”
Shannon was understanding it more and more, even as she heard Devin fuss and squirm. “I think I understand.”
“So . . . I’m very glad you didn’t say anything to them, and I know the governor will greatly appreciate that. But I should warn you, they may call you again, and if they do, please don’t talk to them. I really need to have your word on this, that you won’t discuss Hillary’s death with anyone.”
Shannon could feel that leash; she could feel this guy trying to control her life. She was amazed at her courage even as she asked, “Mr. Devin, what if I do talk to them? What will happen?”
Devin didn’t answer right away. Apparently he was taken aback by the directness of her question. “Shannon . . . really, you have to believe me, that would not be a wise thing to do. It would hurt some people. It would be a betrayal of a sacred trust.”
So now he was trying the old guilt trip! The governor had used that one on her in the very beginning! “Mr. Devin . . .” Oh no, now her emotions were choking her. The last thing she wanted to do was cry! “I don’t think you care how I feel. I don’t think it even occurs to you.”
He switched into a sympathy mode. “Oh, Shannon, of course I do. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. We’re trying to protect you as well. We don’t want the media prying into your life either.”
“Mr. Devin . . .” She’d never thought about this before, but right now, at this moment, it seemed like a marvelous idea. “Mr. Devin, I’m considering withdrawing from classes and coming home. I could just give you back the money. I’ll work for a while and just go to school there.”
That alarmed him. “Shannon, now wait. You’re just upset.”
“You’d better believe I’m upset!” Now she really was crying, but the release felt wonderful. She’d been saving up for this a long time. “You and the governor never cared about me in the first place! You just wanted me out of the way!”
“Shannon, now that’s not true, and you know it!”
“Then why is it you’re the only one who ever calls me?”
“Shannon, I told you, the governor is busy, so I call on his b
ehalf.”
“Then why is it every time you call it’s always about the same thing: ‘Are you all right, Shannon? Are you getting over it, Shannon? You haven’t told anybody, have you, Shannon?’”
Now he was really getting flustered. Even through the flood of her emotions, Shannon could tell she’d hit the right nerve.
“Shannon, now . . . you know that isn’t true! We’re thinking of you and your future. That’s what the scholarship was all about.”
“You’re thinking of you and the governor and the election—that’s what you’re thinking about! I don’t think you even cared about Hillary! I know the governor never did!”
Oh-oh. Devin switched to stern parent mode. “Now hold on, young lady! That was uncalled for!”
She wasn’t intimidated by this guy anymore. He wasn’t her mother or her father, and besides that, he was far away, a little voice on the phone that she realized she hated. “Oh, is that so? Well, Hillary used to tell me about it—she used to cry about it, how she never even saw him, how he didn’t care about her, he was always gone, always doing his political thing. But now that she’s dead she’s important to him! Now that she’s dead he cares about her precious reputation!”
“Hillary . . .” he bumbled. “Shannon . . . it’s late, and you’re tired, and things are going to look a lot different in the morning. Why don’t you sleep on it, okay? We can talk again tomorrow. Give me a call, okay?”
“I don’t want to call you. I don’t want to talk to you . . . not ever again. I’m sick of talking to you.”
“Now, Shannon, you call me tomorrow, after you’ve had some time to think about things. We have a lot invested in you, and we don’t want to see you throw it all away.”
That was enough. That one little attempt at another guilt trip was just enough to spur Shannon on to new heights of courage. She slammed the phone in his face.
Then she wept, half from sorrow and pain and half from a new freedom and release. Before this moment she’d not realized how bound she was, how heavily weighted down.
MARTIN DEVIN DID not sleep much that night. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, staring at the wall, turning this way and that, and having a long, furious conference with himself: agenda, second agenda, course of action, alternatives, information selection, presentation, first impression, second impression, arguments, counterarguments. He rehearsed conversations with the governor, babbling to himself under the sheets. He came to dead ends, pounded the mattress with his fist, and started over.
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